


Cut Locks (Praise to My Father)

by Blue Rose (HailsRose)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, F/F, Headcanon Backstory, Main Focus is on Lady, Rated M for Implicit Nudity, light blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailsRose/pseuds/Blue%20Rose
Summary: Lady feels like her parents again. Powerless, scared. Angry, inhuman.
Relationships: Lady/Trish (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Cut Locks (Praise to My Father)

There’s a high laugh in Lady’s head when she wakes. She doesn’t thrash, she doesn’t bolt, her scream is smothered before her lungs can even act on the impulse. Over two decades, her body has learned to swallow fear. Once it burned like straight vodka, hissing and untamed as it went down into the box she’s buried in her mind but now, it barely stings.

She absently stretches her fingers across the space of the mattress, seeking Trish’s warmth in the pitch black of night, and is relieved to find her partner still in bed with her. There isn’t a stitch of clothing between the two of them, the mark of a good night in Lady’s book—she shivers as she remembers the buzzing trail left by Trish’s fingers when she traced the back of her neck, her shoulder blades, her hips.

Of course, it’d be ruined by _him._

Lady slides out from between the sheets. The cold air rolls off her body and the harsh, white of the bathroom light paints her visage in the mirror a sickly color. The lines underneath her eyes, the grey streaks dashing through her hair, the fading scars of her time spent in the tower; they’re all signs. She keeps getting older. But her memories are still as fresh as they were on that fateful night, still strong enough to rip her open like the hell gate did the dark sky when demons poured out of the Underworld. They pierce through like the sound of a bullet firing into her father’s head.

Over and over and over.

Her hair’s getting longer again. It hits her suddenly, with force, makes her wonder how she never notices, reminds her of everything that’s happened lately. She’s painfully aware of the last time she combed it, the last time someone pulled it. Fire ignites in her belly, surges through her veins like a gushing geyser. _Not tonight,_ she thinks. _Not ever._

She yanks open the drawer for the pair scissors she keeps, and she’s immediately soothed by the cool touch of the metal handle as her fingers slip into them. She needs it, craves it, this little sliver of making her life her own. It gives her control when she’s so close to losing it. She takes the scissors to the longest locks first, hacking them off with brutal intent until they barely frame her cheeks again. Then to the other side, then to the back, her black hair floating into the sink looks like pieces of the void carved out and given to a lover of a most powerful being who promised them the world. It’s vicious and keening, devouring and loving like all her memories of _them_ are.

Without meaning to, she snatches a glance at her eyes in the mirror. Two-toned, one a cool blue fading to grey like the icy landscape of the arctic, sharp and slicing and unforgiving; the other is a seething reddish-brown, a hue from the heart of a volcano on the brink of erupting, choleric and fiery and passionate. Her father’s high laugh echoes in her head again.

 _“Don’t be a bad girl,_ _████_ _. Or you can expect a spanking from daddy later.”_

_“You point a gun at me? Your own kin? Your own papa? You break my heart. After all, it was I who gave you your name, my darling daughter.”_

Lady feels like her parents again. Powerless, scared. Angry, inhuman.

Those two features, though beloved by so many people in her life, she can’t help but hate. Where they see something to treasure, she sees her two greatest failures. Her mother’s hair and her father’s eyes—both of their deaths. The aching tremble of loathing starts in her shoulders this time and spreads out to the tips of her fingers, _urging_ her to disprove the accusations her mind is hurling at her. 

Her fist contacts the mirror in a symphony of shattering glass and metallic pieces showering down to catch the light. A flicker of pain dances across her fingers, grounding her to this room, this moment far away from her childhood. A trickle of blood seeps from her knuckles and runs down the back of her hand and across her wrist, a crimson stream in a fluorescent beam.

She isn’t weak and she isn’t cruel. She’s just herself. She’s human.

**Author's Note:**

> This thing, weirdly enough, kind of has two titles. One is supposed to be more literal and the other ties it to a couple of other fics I've written that are of similar blood. They're not part of a series but I realized I'd written one about [Dante](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16930056) and one about [Vergil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17514329) and thought I'd cap off the Temen Trio with some light Trish.


End file.
